Chapter 7
Callum
Iwas prepared.
Mentally. Logically. Strategically.
I’d braced myself for cardigans. Something floral, maybe. Loose trousers, sensible shoes. The kind of outfit that says “I’ve got Tupperware in my bag and tissues up my sleeve.”
Notthis.
Not this bloody dress.
Green, fitted, hugging every curve like it was made for her. The neckline low enough to show just a hint of her ample cleavage, the fabric smooth over her full hips, pulled in at the waist. She is the image wet dreams are made of.
I was supposed to be in control.
Instead, she walks in, tablet in hand, hair tucked behind one ear like it’s no big deal, and I forget what I was doing. Forget what I was meant to say.
Because I don’t know what to do with her like this.
Something’s changed, and some selfish part of me wants to believe it’s because of me. That she wore this dresswith me in mind. That she’s braver, more sure of herself, because of me. The thought makes me feel like an arrogant bastard.
It has to be the job. It must feel good—liberating, even—to be back at work after so long away. Maybe this role has given her back a piece of herself.
She isn’t hiding anymore. Not behind loose trousers or a hunched posture. She’s here in my office, in a dress that skims her curves and dares the world to notice, even if she doesn’t quite believe it yet. And I can’t look away.
I shift in my chair and adjust the folder in front of me, to hide the hard on that is tenting my trousers.
She doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me like she’s waiting for something.
I clear my throat and nod towards the paperwork. “Shall we?”
Because if she keeps looking at me like that, I won’t be thinking about work. I’ll be thinking about how fast I can bend her over this desk and show her how much I want her.
Stella appears at the door mid-morning, tablet in one hand, the other resting lightly against the frame.
“Do you want a tea or coffee?”
I glance up. “Yeah. Coffee. Black. No sugar… please.”
She nods. “Where’s the machine?”
“In the kitchen. Through the living room, on the right. It’s on the counter next to the window.”
She disappears again, footsteps fading down the hall.
I try to focus on the email in front of me, but the image of her walking away in that bloody dress is still stuck in my head. It’s the way it moves… no, the way she sways in it. Intentional or not, it’s in my head now, and it’s not leaving any time soon.
A few minutes later, she’s back.
“Sorry, Callum, I can’t find the filters.”
I lean back in my chair and sigh, louder than necessary. “Of course not.”
Pushing up from the desk, I walk past her and head towards the kitchen. I don’t look back, but I can feel her eyes on me. My shoulders tighten without permission.
When I step into the kitchen, she follows, staying just behind me. The space is as pristine as I remember — every surface wiped clean, everything lined up like it’s afraid to be out of place.
